Chances Dissolve In The Rain and Snow
by Starshocked
Summary: Waiting for a break in the clouds. How will they end things? House and Cameron angst. M for language and suggestions. FINAL chapter is up of this small but perfectly formed fic. It's been emotional.
1. Chapter 1

I.

"_I don't know. Maybe we could."_

The sentence lingers in the dark air between.

Three minutes ago there had been a high five. An eye roll from Cameron. A smirk from House. A touch of hands.

And then: "We solved it all by ourselves. Without Cuddy or Chase or Wilson or Foreman. Especially not Foreman. How smart are we?"

She'd smiled. Smiled at the patient before them who was saying his own special prayer to his own special God about how grateful he was that it was an unusual case of arthritis and not a stroke. Smiled at House as they'd walked to the door and slid it open, letting the January air creep around their collars and sleeves.

She shivered and he smirked.

"We rock," he said eyeing her carefully.

"We so totally do," she agreed, shifting her notes from one arm to the other. Feeling like she could indulge him in just about any level of silliness at that precise moment. Because he was brilliant. Because he was right. Again. Because he was House and he made everything so good and so bad about her time at the hospital.

He high-fived her and let his grip slide from her palm down to her wrist and then fall back to his side.

"Maybe we should get a drink," he mused, like he was asking himself more than he was asking her.

"I guess." She said but she didn't sound too sure.

"You're wearing new glasses?" He enquired taking the notes from her and tucking them under his arm.

She followed him to the elevator touching her face nervously. "Um, no. These are my old glasses. A patient accidentally knocked my regular eyewear whilst he was convulsing."

"Damn those patients and their meddlesome ways."

And now they were stood side by side in the elevator and neither of them spoke.

Close proximity and euphoria were a desperately bad combination and standing at opposite sides of the small square seemed to be a choice they'd both subconsciously made.

"So, we could go eat? If you eat?" He said ducking his head down into the folder of notes.

"I don't know. Maybe we could." She said taking her glasses off and tucking them into the top pocket of her lab coat. She took a moment to study the top of his forehead, needing to decrease it, to plant a kiss where his hairline began, but not daring to take that final step forward.

"So." He said when the elevator stopped and they both emerged into the dark hallway. "Is that a maybe or a yes?"

"Yes." She whispered and suddenly everything went into overdrive. She raced away to ready herself. Showered in the locker room. Dried her hair under the hand dryer. Dressed in a black blouse she'd found at the back of her locker. Buttoned it up. Left a couple of buttons undone and sprayed perfume where her collar bone protruded. Everything was happening quickly, pushing forward, moving towards something. And her pulse. Her pulse echoed around her head and she was still feeling dizzy from the heat of the shower as she stepped out into the cold night air and waited in the doorway.

A plan came and went in her mind and she tried to shake it but it kept on creeping back in. What they would do. They. Us. Them. We. Tonight. A meal and drinks. Like any other couple. And people would be looking at them as they sat. Arms and legs almost touching. Opposite each other in a restaurant under moonlight and amongst vases of flowers. And people might notice how he cocked his head to the side when she spoke and how she nervously trailed her hand over the back of her neck and tucked away stray locks of hair whenever she met his glance. They would be intimate. They would unravel each other. And everything that said that they shouldn't or wouldn't would be inaudible over the sounds of pleasure and desire. All the secrets and the half-saids would dissolve like the rain and the snow under the beads of sweat sliding down the valley between their chests.

"Hey," he said, sliding around the door and placing his cane down with force onto the tarmac.

"Hey," she replied, drawing herself off the wall and stepping towards him.

Anticipation surged through her veins making her shake but she could pretend it was down to the weather. She tried to control her breathing. She was aware of everything around her. Every murmur she made. Every movement. Every hair standing on end down her spine.

And then she realised that he wasn't wearing his jacket. And he didn't have his bag with him.

"Look," he said, his breath rising into the night. "I just got paged. We've got a new patient. Coming here in ten minutes."

"Right," she whispered. But she couldn't put two and two together and for a second she didn't know why this mattered when she was going to feel his hands wrapped around her waist and his mouth on her breasts and she'd be grabbing the muscles on his back and drawing him into her and…

"You go ahead. You go home. I'll page Foreman. You go get some sleep."

He shrugged in apology. There was regret in his voice. It was bitter and it was harsh and it stopped the circular motion of the plan in her mind.

Deflated, she looked at the ground. He shouldn't see. He shouldn't ever know how desperately she'd wanted this. How her whole body shook with his imagined touch. How wet she could become if only he'd…

"Go on. Get into your car before you freeze to death," He lent back against the wall. Preparing his waiting stance.

She started to move away. Concentrating on not falling over as she made her way across the icy parking lots.

"It never ends, does it?" He shouted after her.

She turned, hiding bitter disappointment with a slight smile: "We'll never run out of sick people will we?" It was a little too quiet for him to hear but she was glad because she knew he was really talking about them.


	2. Chapter 2

II 

And this is what you don't do. Allison Cameron. You idiot. You don't write someone a letter when you've drunk a litre of whisky and are lamenting about your life. You don't tell someone that you love them when you don't get to hear their response. You don't do it because you're selfish and tired of living alone and can't stop thinking about his hands.

You don't write it on pink scented paper because it's all you have in your possession and you definitely don't walk a drunken line from your door to his house at midnight and post it through his letterbox.

House was ill. It was no longer pain. It was illness. It had happened in February. There'd been signs but he'd covered his tracks. She'd seen him wince and she'd seen him stumble and fall. But this wasn't new. This was part of what he did.

However, something fundamental had changed and one day when she'd gone back into his office after lunch he was gone. All gone; his oversized tennis ball, his Gameboy, even his TV. And Wilson was there leaning against the desk and waiting for Foreman and Chase to arrive so that he could break the news.

There was talk of pain and relief and the end of the road. And what would happen next and only one option left. And it was all said in Wilson's most sympathetic voice. And there was a low sob in Cameron's throat that she managed to swallow two or three times until the meeting was over.

Wilson slid off the desk and walked to the door. Cameron followed and he stopped in the hallway and hugged her and whispered into her hair.

"He's made the right decision."

That night she'd swirled around her thoughts about House in the bottom of her whisky bottle until everything became blurred and mixed up.

In her dreams she'd seen his eyes and his jaw, defiant and strong, and he was grabbing the pen from the nurse and he was writing: _Not this leg_.

_This leg._

Outside, a storm was brewing and she thought she could hear his cries through the wind and rain. She moved her head to the window and let the cold glass press on her hot forehead. Would he know that he wasn't alone? It was the one thing she'd needed her husband to know all of those years ago when she'd grabbed his hand at the end of it all.

She drank. Some old bottle of whisky that a patient had once given him. Because she had saved his life. Probably. She couldn't quite remember now. How many people…all of them touched and crying and mumbling and hugging. And smiling like they'd never smiled before and making promises that they couldn't possibly keep. She let the whisky rest at the back of her throat and swallowed hard with the shock of the first clap of thunder.

The power in the apartment cut out and she stumbled, glass still in hand, to the fuse box, before realising that she was far too drunk to work out how to get the power back.

She found her cell phone in the pocket of her coat and turned on it's light. She grabbed a pen and paper and envelope and etched out her life like the list of symptoms on the whiteboard in diagnostics. What she needed and what he needed. And then drew a thick wobbly line under the four words that ended both lists:

_Not to be alone. _


	3. Chapter 3

III

She'd slept like the dead. And he'd slept like the dead because he was high on morphine. And she'd groaned and risen to the morning and he'd groaned a day later and covered his face with his hands.

The aftercare nurse had brought him a letter and before he could see it, before he could make sense of his surroundings and dare to open his eyes and survey the damage, he'd smelt her perfume and held the unopened envelope to the side of his burning face.

"Cameron."

Wilson rushed down the hall to where she waited for the elevator.

Other people joined them and pushed them to the back corner.

"Ground floor," Wilson said above the low chatter.

Cameron's arm brushed his as she moved further into the corner. She struggled to collect her thoughts around Wilson sometimes. There was just so much to say. His furrowed brow told a story of how House was recovering but she wanted to, needed to, hear the words. She wanted to feel how House felt. Know how much it hurt. Suffer with him. Understand him.

"He read your letter."

Wilson stepped out before Cameron and she lost him in the exodus. Had he really said it? Was it just her mind saying what she needed to hear most of all?

She was ashamed and embarrassed. She drank the thoughts away that night. Stupid girl. Writing him a letter. How old was she? How selfish was she? He was recovering from a major operation. He'd lost a limb. He didn't need her and her stupid needs invading his thoughts.

And then she shivered and let her head drop to the table. Maybe he hadn't read it. Maybe he'd torn it up and threw it away. Maybe he'd laughed about her. Maybe nothing would ever be the same. Scratch _maybe_. Nothing would _definitely _ever be the same.

She picked up her cell phone and dialled a number. She didn't expect anyone to answer.

"Hi."

"Hi, James." She cleared her throat. Surprised and relieved to hear his voice. "What you said about House…um, that letter…it was…"

She didn't know what to say. Confess that it was a mistake. All of it? Which bit? The writing it part or the detail contained within? Why was this so difficult? Wilson would listen. He would understand.

"I just meant…" She began again and cleared her throat, "I was in a bad place when I sent that and I know he's in a bad place but if you could just maybe explain to him…"

"He's kind of down." Wilson whispered back. "I'm at his place. He's having all of these nightmares and he's really in no fit state to…"

"I'm sorry," Her voice shook. "I'm an idiot. Please forgive me."

And then she was crying. Sobbing uncontrollably down the phone line. Wishing she'd never sent that damn letter. Wishing that she was where Wilson was. Wishing that House trusted her like he trusted Wilson.

"Do you want to speak to him?" Wilson asked suddenly.

Maybe it was part of Wilson's 10-step recovery programme but Cameron couldn't think of anything worse. Speaking to him. Crying down the phone. Saying how brave and beautiful he was and in return him telling her that she was a drunken fool who shouldn't send letters out whilst inebriated. It wasn't a conversation she could handle.

She let the phone fall to the ground and it knocked some papers off the table. She bent to pick them up and gasped as her head started to swim.

She fumbled around amongst the papers and picked out a stapled document. She put her empty glass down on top of it and wandered away into her bedroom, leaving the glass to magnify the lines of typeface: "_Renewal of contract. Signature required here."_


	4. Chapter 4

IV

You'll walk into his office one day and he'll be sat there. Leaning over his desk eating a bag of potato chips. Deep in conversation with Wilson. Foreman and Chase will await him in the adjoining office and he'll wipe the crumbs from his lap, stand up, grab his cane and hobble through to stand beside the whiteboard and begin the next differential diagnosis.

This is what you dream about. It used to be Brad Pitt asking you to accompany him to your senior prom. And then it was Gregory House sliding his hands down your body and fucking you against the wall and now it's just to see him sitting behind his own desk. That would be enough.

And today it happens.

Allison Cameron finds that she is unable to push open the door of his office.

He spots her over the heads of Chase, Wilson, Cuddy and Foreman and he nods to her.

Inside she is jumping for joy but she manages to appear calm as she walks slowly forward.

Wilson gives up his chair for her and she slides into it. Across from House's desk. She can't help but stare at him. His hair is slightly greyer and he's thinner. His shirt practically hangs off him. He fingers a pen and slowly meets her eye again and his brow furrows. Something is worrying him.

Cuddy puts her hand on the back of Cameron's chair – to protect her? – and draws a deep breath.

"As you are all aware, House has not been having the easiest time with his recovery…"

This is a meeting. For a second Cameron feels less lonely. The team are all around her. Like it should be. The rain starts to pour outside but it doesn't really matter. House's office is warm and comfortable and she's surrounded by people she knows and cares about.

Cuddy's voice rises and falls as the wind whips against the windows and Cameron is momentarily transported back to her mother's house. She is four years old and her mother and her are dashing into the kitchen soaking wet. Removing rain coats and boots and sodden hats and gloves and they're laughing. Because nothing can ever harm them.

She blinks back to reality and smiles a real smile at House. Does he realise that he makes her feel like that? And it's so good to have him back and the rain won't touch her anymore.

Cuddy pauses, her grip tightens on Cameron's chair: "…therefore House has decided to take a position in sunny California and will be leaving at the end of the month."

A pause. The heaviest pause in the history of the universe. The loudest silence ever spoken.

"I'd like to be the first to congratulate you," Cuddy clears her throat, "and tell you that I am unimaginably jealous that you'll be escaping this terrible weather for sunnier shores."

House looks right at Cameron. His face is unreadable. His hands drop the pen and he nods.

Foreman and Chase exchange looks like Cuddy is speaking Japanese.

"What?" Chase finally says incredulously.

"What?" Foreman echoes.

Cameron looks around at them. Knowing, at least, that she wasn't the only one who didn't see this coming.

"Guys," House says and his voice is soothing and calm. And this is strange. "We have a lot to talk about and we will, at some point, but right now, I'd kill for a coffee."

His gaze returns to Cameron. She is gripping the desk and she steadies herself and stands up. But doesn't go to the coffee machine. She walks out of the door, takes the stairs, feels her pulse quickening around her ears as she passes through the nurses station and heads to the door.

She races out into the rain. Her hair sticks to her forehead and her eyelashes. The rain soaks through her blouse and her hands start to turn blue. And she walks around the side of the building feeling the heavy drops on her nose and tongue and she looks up at his office and he spots her. Beckons her back inside. Acts like he doesn't know.

And really he doesn't know; he has no idea that she is crying.


	5. Chapter 5

V

It was a charade. It really was. Cuddy had talked her through it. This is what will happen, she'd said putting on her bossiest voice. You'll put on a nice dress and fix your makeup and then you'll join the rest of us at Armando's. And you'll smile and look pretty and you'll say goodbye to him and you'll never have to see him again for the rest of your life, ok?

She had no idea.

Cameron had almost handed in her resignation. Before.

Whilst House had been recovering from his operation Cameron had wondered if he really was ever going to come back. She'd wondered if she'd be offered his position. Or if Foreman would be.

And after she'd sent House that letter. Confessing her deepest darkest thoughts. Telling him how lonely she felt. How empty she was without him. How could she ever look him in the eye again after that? So, yes, she'd thought about moving on. Starting again somewhere else where she could make small, yet significant mistakes all over again, and not have some snarky guy remembering every move she made. It would have suited her.

But then for a second, when she'd seen House back in his old office, she'd felt such warmth for him, this grouchy old guy who was almost double her age and now only had one leg. It didn't matter. None of it did. He could still melt her like February snow with just a glance. How could she ever think about leaving him?

Then, the decision had been taken out of her hands.

Now, she stands in the shower letting the hot steamy water immerse her thoughts. She'd tried all day to avoid this leaving party. She wasn't hungry. She'd never be able to eat. Even worse when she knew she'd be sitting close to House. And the small talk? How do you make small talk with someone who knows you long to kiss them hard just below the ear and whisper their name in the dark?

"_House, what are you doing here?"_

Since he'd been back he hadn't ventured down to the labs, which was probably for the best as Cameron kept a safe distance in her own personal fortress.

He stepped carefully around her and lent against the counter. He used his hand to guide his leg across his other one. Casual poses were tricky with artificial limbs.

"So." He cleared his throat.

Cameron looked hard into the microscope and hoped that he'd get the message.

"You're coming tonight?"

"I don't think so." She said quietly. "I'm not in a party-party mood."

"Well," He reasoned. "If you love me…"

She froze. Her eyes widening with shock.

"…you'll want to say goodbye and treat me to a couple of Vodka Jello shots…" His voice softened. "And if you hate me it's a good chance to kick my ass as I'm waving you goodbye. So either way you win."

She braced herself. In what way had she won? She'd lost everything. He was moving away from her. She turned to savour his look. What his eyes did to her. Before too long she'd forget how his gaze felt and then one day she'd forget how to describe his eyes, their exact shade of blue. And then later, she'd forget him altogether.

"I…" She started, desperate to erase her previous thought.

"I read it." He said. He scanned her face. He was in pain.

She clasped her hands together. Like she was starting a prayer. She looked down at her entwined fingers. That letter. All her hopes and fears. "And?"

"And." He moved closer to her. His chin level with the top of her head. "And it was pathetic."

He breathed deeply into her hair. "I guess you were drunk."

"I was…"She shuddered as she felt his hand gently take her own. "But I meant it."

They stood like that for a minute or two. Her own chest rose and fell against his body. She gripped his hand like she might fall over if she let go.

"You were right," He rested his chin on her head and brought his hands tentatively around her body to hug her gently. "We are sad. We are damaged. Your differential is correct. And we deserve to not be alone."

His lips moved down to her ear: "Please don't be alone, Cameron."

She held him tightly. Didn't want to let go.

He moved her hands away and made for the door. He was flustered and confused. A flush had risen up his neck and around his ears.

"Why are you leaving?"

He looked from the door to the floor and back again but he couldn't turn around. "I just need to…"

"Please," she mouthed, cleared her throat and then louder: "Please, tell me it's because of the rain around here?"

He put his hand out to the door and pushed it open. "It is. It's all about the rain."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own House or any of these characters, Nor do I own the song lyrics that belong to Apple Records and The Beatles. Thanks to everyone who read or reviewed this. Maybe I'll write another.**

VI

You've done harder things in your life, Allison Cameron. You've told a father that his new-born baby boy had been killed in a house fire that he'd started, you've assisted in the suicide of one of your patients, you've watched your own husband die, this is not that difficult for you.

Cuddy was right and it hadn't been difficult. It had been surprisingly easy for her. Saying goodbye to House. Watching him laughing and joking with Wilson. Raising a glass to the good doctor and wishing him all the best for his life of "Bermuda shorts, surfer chicks, the Beach Boys and smoking pot" – his words not hers. And she'd even hugged him and slipped a box of cigars into his coat pocket.

And now she was at home, slipping out of the dress that made House say "Wow" and down his glass of wine. And pulling her old comfortable robe around her shoulders. And predictably, it was raining outside. Perhaps House had a point, after all.

A lot of it made sense, and her need to solve puzzles was almost as well developed as his. He could start again at a hospital where no one would know him, or ask him how he lost his leg. He could create a new life for himself. Completely. He would have a chance to wipe the slate clean in a place where his lawsuits, ex-girlfriends, and angry ex-patients wouldn't interfere with his life. His big chance.

She fell asleep on the sofa feeling light headed and empty and didn't wake until the dawn streaked through the blinds.

A tap at the door.

At first she didn't hear it. The rain was coming down hard.

"I don't want to let you in." She said honestly. Her back resting against the door as she surveyed her messy living room, sieving every discarded piece of paper through her befuddled mind.

"It's too late for that." He said and then knocked harder until she relented.

House walked into her apartment.

"Listen," he said. "I heard about your promotion and I want you to know…that you can have my PSP. I left it in the second to bottom drawer of my desk. Claim it before Wilson does."

She smiled. She couldn't help it. She could feel tears springing up in her eyes.

"When's your flight?"

"Tomorrow morning. I get extra leg room." He almost smiled too.

"What do you want?" She said taking a step towards him.

"You might want to rephrase that question." He raised his hand tentatively and ran it down her cheek. She nuzzled into it.

"What did you come here for?"

"You." He murmured. "I got you a present."

"I don't need a present."

She stepped away from him. "You want a coffee? My final offer?"

He nodded.

She went out into the kitchen leaving him in her living room.

"Maybe you should have it different this time." She called through. "Maybe you should go for extra sugar? Just to shake things up a little?"

"Hey, I want to be sentimental here." He called back. "Give me my coffee how I like it. God knows, I'll have to settle for poor imitations in the future."

The rain was starting to clear. She peered out of the window as the coffee maker bubbled away and she wondered if there'd be a rainbow. She hadn't seen a rainbow for years.

She poured the two mugs and walked carefully into the living room. It wasn't until she'd put them down on the table that she realised.

Empty. The room was empty. No rain. No House. Silent.

She flopped down onto the sofa and sighed. It had had to end. Right from the first second he'd told her she was pretty. It could have only ended one way. She was not what he needed. He needed sunshine and a fresh start.

She spied a white envelope on the coffee table and picked it up. She slowly turned it over in her hand:

_When it rains and shines_

_it's just a state of mind._

She ran her fingers over his scrawled writing. She opened the envelope and shakily pulled out a return plane ticket to California.

Cameron dashed to the window just in time to see House's bike disappear into the distance. The road framed by the beginnings of a rainbow.

The dark clouds slowly dispersing.

The End.


End file.
